The watchman said, "Nothing," and turned back instantly.
But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge moustaches, and,
directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared
in the darkness of the night.
THE DISTRICT DOCTOR
BY IVAN S. TURGENEV
One day in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country I
caught cold and fell ill. Fortunately the fever attacked me in the
district town at the inn; I sent for the doctor. In half-an-hour the
district doctor appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He
prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster to be put
on, very deftly slid a five-ruble note up his sleeve, coughing drily
and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but
somehow fell into talk and remained. I was exhausted with
feverishness; I foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little
chat with a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began to
converse freely. He was a sensible fellow, and expressed himself with
vigour and some humour. Queer things happen in the world: you may live
a long while with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and
never once speak openly with them from your soul; with others you have
scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out
to him--or he to you--all your secrets, as though you were at
confession.
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